


La Valette: Remember me

by fizzbuzzler



Series: La Valette [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Kink, Breathplay, Conditioning, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Psychological Torture, Sadistic elves, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-14 02:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12997710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzbuzzler/pseuds/fizzbuzzler
Summary: Because I seem incapable of leaving them alone. Have another story about a certain elf and his obsession with a Witcher.After what happens in Wild Hunt, Caranthir is searching for his Witcher and finds him in the dungeons of La Valette, fighting for his live and providing certain other services for paying guests. The Aen Elle makes sure to get one night with the only man who can fulfil his deepest desires.Expect lots of torture, blood and pain - you have been warned.This is not for the faint hearted but my lovely swedish connoisseur of sadistic elves - aeiparthenos. Enjoy it, darling.Note: for those who would like to understand the background, and not just read torture-porn, I recommend reading both the Wild Hunt and La Valette before. But if you're just here for the pain, you're welcome, too.





	La Valette: Remember me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nortonis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nortonis/gifts).



The audience was roaring. It sounded like waves crashing against rocks - a steady, undulating thunder that had even the sand on the floor of the arena vibrate.  
One figure in the audience kept quiet, however. The tall man stood to the back, intently watching what happened in the brightly lit circle below him. With the audience packed against the railing towards the arena there was more than enough space around him. Nobody seemed to want to come too close to him anyway. As if everybody instinctively knew that this would be a bad idea. Cold eyes the color of ice peered out from under the hood, and a small smirk was visible on his lips. Caranthir’s prey was down there. 

Another bloodcurdling scream from the arena had the spectators erupt in a collective gasp. The man tilted his head, and his eyes locked onto the lone figure rolling in the sand to evade the slash of the endrega warrior’s tail.

Several other endrega corpses were already strewn around the sand. The man fighting them was only wearing a loincloth which had been white when the fighting started, but by now was covered in streaks of bright red. The Aen Elle widened his nostrils and his tongue darted out over his lips. He could smell the fighter’s blood in the air even at that distance. It was so different to every other smell in the arena - bright, powerful and so full of life-force like nothing else he had ever smelled.

Another reaction from the audience brought his attention back to the sands of the arena - the fighter had been hit by the tail of the beast and was lying prone on his back, blood gushing freely from a deep wound at his thigh. That injury would have been the death sentence to every other man, but the fighter just rolled out of the range of the endrega warrior and managed to hack into the back of the beast. Turning around itself the endrega tried to evade the barrage of lightning quick slashes that followed. The fighter’s sword glinted in the light of the torches and the razor-sharp blade found its mark unerringly. 

Only a few minutes later the endrega warrior’s moves became erratic and uncoordinated before a final stab through its carapace finally finished it off. Holding on to his sword that still stuck in the beast, the man sank to his knees. He seemed oblivious to the cheering crowd above him. 

With a last look down into the arena Caranthir turned away and made for the exit. Listening to the other spectators he had found out that some of the fighters were available for another kind of entertainment after they had finished their fights. And he had every intention to get his hands on this particular one.

He wasn’t used to haggling. In his world he wouldn’t even have been asked to pay for a night with the man in the first place. But this wasn’t his world, and he had long ago decided to follow their rules and conventions as long as they didn’t interfere with his plans too much. So being asked a rather large sum of money by the human who was in charge of the fights didn’t faze him in the slightest. That seemed to surprise the human - a tall man in a rather silly chaperon and obviously some military commander. 

“It is always nice to do business with people who know what things are worth. You will not be disappointed. The Witcher is our best fighter - in every sense of the word.”  
The man’s voice was gleeful and he was quick to put the gold away in a strongbox. 

“Would you like the Witcher to be treated before he is brought to you? We can take care of his wounds and with a healing potion he will be much more lively. If you like that, of course.”  
The man was clearly all business - although he kept glancing under the hood of his customer’s coat every now and then. 

With a small smile the tall elf dismissed the offer, “He will be just fine like he is. As a Vatt’ghern he is used to injuries. A few more or less will not matter." His voice was cold with just a slight undertone of impatience.

The commander suddenly seemed wary and stopped in front of his customer.  
“Just to make one thing clear - you will not seriously damage or even kill him. Even for you that would be way too costly.”

“Even for me…?” The dark voice had turned even colder, and the pale eyes stared at the commander from under the hood. The human didn’t seem to be frightened - he narrowed his eyes and suddenly the sales persona was gone and in it’s place stood a battle-hardened commander.

“Yeah - even for you. Old, rich elves who every now and then crawl out of their woods in search for something different to alleviate the boredom of several hundred years of living. I’ve seen your type in nearly every brothel in our cities. Always looking for something extraordinary, something to get you going. And trust me - you will find what you are looking for here, but step just one tiny bit out of line and I will make sure that you won’t leave alive.” He paused, waiting for some reaction. When none came he huffed “Don’t think I’m doing this out of sympathy for the Witcher. But I will protect my business interests and my property. And he belongs to me.” The last sentence was bit out between clenched teeth. 

The elf just lowered his head in quiet approval. Turning back to lead on, the commander couldn’t see the sneer of contempt on the mage’s face.

Soon they reached a corridor with a series of doors. The commander indicated the rooms to the left “Those are the luxurious rooms - real bed, carpet, cushions, the lot. On the right side are our cells. Just like the ones the fighters live in when they’re not in the arena or training. Pallet on the floor, chains on the wall.” Tilting his head he seemed to be thinking “You look like a man who doesn’t need luxuries - a cell maybe?” He pointed to a door that was quickly opened by a guard who had followed them. 

Looking into the cold, drab room the elf registered the torches and even a window in the cell. With a small smile he noticed the large hook in the ceiling and the chain that hung from it.  
“This will do perfectly.”  
Rubbing his hands, the commander motioned the tall elf into the cell.  
“If you need anything - refreshments, tools - maybe a whip, he responds magnificently to a barbed whip. I’ve flogged him myself a few times. So - if you need anything, just let the guard outside know and they will bring it to you.”

Again the look of the pale eyes turned dark and cold “I do not need anything like that. There are better ways to inflict pain than such crude methods. If I want to see him bleed I can do so without resorting to such primitive strategies.”  
Caranthir felt the dh’oine flinch under his stare.  
“But I will have some wine - and two cups.”  
“Whatever you need.” The commander motioned the guard who immediately disappeared, before he turned to leave the cell.  
“Enjoy your night - you have until sunrise. The Witcher will be brought to you right away.”

Finally alone, the elf turned around to take in the small cell. In addition to the pallet and chains there was a small table and a chair as well as some buckets. One of them contained water and a rag was thrown over the rim, the others were empty. 

Caranthir turned to the center of the room - his hand reaching out to the chain that hung from the ceiling. A small smile curled his lips as his long, white fingers caressed the cold, hard metal. He was not a man prone to sentimentality, but a warm feeling spread in him at the thought of a similar room, a similar chain and a certain man moaning and panting under his hands. 

Grabbing the chain he tugged at it hard - there was no give. It would be just like when he had the Witcher in his tower. Experimenting on him, finding his limits and extending them further than even he had thought possible.  
This time he knew his name. He had whispered it to himself during those long hours when he was searching this world for him. That he hadn’t deemed it worth his time and effort to remember the Witcher’s name while he had him in Tir nà Lia was something he regretted. But this time he would be able to whisper his name while he had him writhing and wordlessly begging for release… Gwynbleidd.

His thoughts were distracted by a commotion at the door. Framed by half a dozen heavily armed guards was a man. Tall with pale, scarred skin over hard muscle and white hair that hung limply down his shoulders, covering half his face. The commander had been serious when he said that they would take the Witcher straight from the arena to him. His body was still covered in dirt and gore. Blood dripping down his thigh, sweat shining on his torso, fists constantly clenching and unclenching as if they were still yearning for a sword to hold. 

He stood unmoving in the entrance to the cell - the only movement besides his clenching fingers were his eyes - the same yellow cat-like eyes Caranthir remembered, and which still sent a slight shiver down his spine. Their pupils were fully blown roaming across the room and the Aen Elle. But there was no recognition in them - Caranthir didn’t know if he was disappointed or not. But somehow he hadn’t truly expected the man to remember anything. But he would make sure to remedy this by the end of the night. 

Looking at the growing uneasiness of the guards when their prisoner wouldn’t move, Caranthir let out a small huff. Even injured and weakened without weapons this dh’oine was still more dangerous than even a dozen of them. But the man knew his role in this little charade - he had played it often enough. 

Slowly he entered the cell. His wariness was clearly visible despite the controlled movements of his body. Caranthir didn’t move but waited until the Witcher was only a few steps away before turning around, and filling the cups with the wine he had ordered. It was one of the better vintages he had encountered on this world so far. At least the commander wasn’t skimping on his customers by serving cheap vinegar.

As soon as the Witcher had fully entered the room, the guards slammed the door shut and the elf heard a heavy lock slide in place. They wouldn’t open the door until morning. Holding out one of the cups to the man, Caranthir gestured towards the chair.  
“You look like you are about to collapse. Sit down and I will take a look at your injury.” His voice was calm and cool. He knew how to control himself, there was no use in rushing into this. He would savor the hours he had with the Witcher, and make sure that neither of them would ever forget.

The look in the Witcher’s eyes remained distanced - he was clearly trying to judge the situation and what was in store for him. Slowly he took the cup but ignored the chair. With closed eyes he took a deep gulp of wine before holding the cup back out to Caranthir - it was empty. A small smile on his lips, the elf refilled it, and his eyes watched the man’s throat as he swallowed the red liquid. Just seeing the tendons move and how his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down had the Aen Elle shiver in anticipation. 

When the Witcher returned the cup a small glint was visible in his eyes - not because of the alcohol, but actually much more dangerous.  
“You trying to get me more pliable with Toussaint’s finest is commendable but futile. The effect of alcohol wears off too quickly.”  
His lips twisted into a small smile.  
“But you can keep it coming - I won’t complain.”

Taking a sip from his own cup, Caranthir contemplated the man before him. Hearing the low and raspy voice again had an immediate effect on his body. It pulled on him in ways he hadn’t felt since the last time he had Gwynbleidd writhing in pain, hanging helplessly in front of him and Eredin. 

“Did you know that I came here specifically for you? That I was searching all over this rotten rock of a world just to find you? And that I had believed it necessary to lure you with some intricate web of lies and deceit and brute force until I had you for myself?”  
The elf sneered.  
“But then, here you are - all I needed was enough gold to convince that brute of a commander that he would give you to me instead to one of the others. Did you know that I could do to you what I wanted?”  
Caranthir stepped closer to the man - he could feel the warmth of his body and smell him, underneath the sweat and blood he could distinguish the earthy tones of leather, herbs and metal that were so deeply ingrained in his memories. 

“I’ve been told not to damage you too much. But just in case I do - I guess I’ll be able to buy you out. Take you with me and finish what we started…”  
Reaching out a hand he pushed a strand of white hair out of the man’s face, letting his thumb scratch over the short white bristles of his beard.  
The yellow eyes had followed his movement, and something like curiosity was visible in them.

“Don’t think we’ve ever met. I would definitely remember someone so… sure of himself.”  
The last words dripped with sarcasm.  
Caranthir chuckled - he was glad to see that even his months in this dreadful place hadn’t broken the Witcher.

“Trust me - we have met. And we’ve actually come to know each other… intimately.”  
The slit pupils widened a fraction at that.  
“But unfortunately you’ve been victim to some rather powerful magic. Tell me - how much do you remember of your life before you came here?”

The sudden tension in the man’s back didn’t escape the elf. Walking around the Witcher slowly, Caranthir let his fingers glide over his shoulders and back.

“Do you remember your friends? The ones you used to love? The flight of a swallow?”

There was a sharp intake of breath, but the man still said nothing. His hands hung at his side, fingers clenched into fists, muscles bunched up.

“There is a part of your mind where a certain memory has been ripped out. They tried to burn it away so that you would never regain it. But I am here to give it back to you. Wouldn’t you like to have some of your past back?”  
Caranthir’s voice had turned low and dark, tempting and alluring.

Feeling the Witcher’s pulse quicken, he let his hand explore further. Moving back to the man’s front his fingernails lightly scraped over his pecs and down his belly. But he stopped before reaching the waistline of the loincloth. 

“All those scars. I see you gained a few new ones. In your time with me you never left with visible scars…” before Caranthir was able to finish his sentence, the Witcher had stepped away from him and turned around.

“I don’t remember you, or what you claim to have done with me. So stop playing around and tell me what you want.”  
His voice was gravelly and full of suppressed emotion. This was different to when he had been with Caranthir - then nearly all of his emotions and feelings had been gone. Only the most base had remained - and his anger. The elf was curious if he might be able to bring that side of the man back during their night together. 

Caranthir knew there was no use in pretending to be someone else or trying to deceit the Vatt’ghern. The man was too intelligent to fall for something like that. So the Aen Elle had decided to tell him the truth - about everything.

“Did you ever wonder why it is so easy for you to enjoy pain and transform it into pleasure?” Caranthir stood directly in front of the Witcher and looked down at him. Despite being tall for a human, the Aen Elle still had a few inches on the dh’oine.  
“In your time here - how often have you participated in those brutal couplings in the arena? How often have you spent your nights in one of these rooms, receiving pain and pleasure? Do you believe it is the same for those other fighters? Not even the one-eyed Aen Seidhe that so often fights at your side thrives on pain as much as you do.”

This time the elf lowered his mouth to the man’s ear, his hot breath ghosting over the white flesh of his neck, “Don’t you think there is a reason for that? Something that happened in that hazy recollection of images that makes up your past, never quite letting you know what really happened?”

With a snarl the Witcher turned and his hand gripped Caranthir’s throat, pushing the elf back against the wall with a force that belied his beaten up state.  
Teeth bared he hissed, “Stop talking, ploughing elf. Just do what you came here to do. If you want me to fight you, just tell me and you can get the satisfaction of having bested not just any Witcher, but the Butcher of Blaviken himself before you get to plough me.”  
Disdain was dripping from his voice at his last words. It sounded like something he had used before, to make sure his customers got the experience they wanted. 

Eyes blazing, the elf let himself be held by the human. It felt absolutely exhilarating to feel the strength and life force in the man. Caranthir’s tongue licked over his lower lip before he answered.  
“Oh - I want you to fight. But not against me. You will fight against yourself, against your body and then you will submit to your basest feelings. You will submit to me… willingly.”

 

A shadow passed over the Witcher’s face at those words, as if he was about to remember something, but he seemed to shake it off without any other sign of recollection. Caranthir had never actually believed that his conditioning and trigger would still work, but it had been worth a try. With a grip that was even stronger than the Witcher’s, he grabbed the man’s hand and pushed away from the wall at the same time. When it came to pure physical strength, he surpassed the Witcher and he let him feel that now. 

Feeling bones give under his fingers he bent the Vatt’ghern’s hand back and with a quick turn pressed him face first into the wall, pushing his arm painfully up along his spine, until he felt that any further pressure would either break bone or dislodge his shoulder. 

A grunt was the only sound that escaped the Witcher as Caranthir broke at least two of his fingers, and his breath came out in hard bursts. The elf pressed himself against the hard body in front of him, feeling the man’s muscles move in a desperate attempt to free himself. His free hand scrabbled uselessly along the wall, and tried to grab onto Caranthir to somehow get some leverage but to no avail. The Aen Elle laughed softly and nibbled at the Witcher’s neck, tasting his salty skin for the first time in ages. He couldn’t suppress the groan that escaped him. 

“I will bring you so much exquisite pain tonight, and you will writhe with agony when your passion claims you. And I will be there and lead you to it, guide you through until you are fully mine to possess and do with as I intend. Your body and your soul will be mine and rest assured - I will savor every second you will spend fighting me on this path.”

With one last bite into the man’s soft flesh on his neck Caranthir let him go and took a step back. 

Turning around the Witcher looked at Caranthir with cold eyes.  
“Guess I now know what get’s you going, elf. And as you’ve already paid, I am yours for the night. Just pass me another cup of that wine - guess I’m gonna need it.”

The Witcher held out his good hand and when Caranthir gave him another full cup he downed it in one go. Small beads of sweat were visible on his forehead, and his eyes were slightly dilated - the pain from his broken fingers seemed to affect him more than he wanted to show, and the fight finally seemed to take its toll.

This time Caranthir remained silent. His eyes locked onto the Witcher’s yellow stare and he took one step that brought him away from the man, towards the middle of the room. The mage saw the Witcher’s jaw muscles work and his nostrils flare as he accepted the unspoken challenge.  
Neither of them really registered the clang of the cup as it dropped from the man’s fingers. The Witcher was moving like a predator towards his prey. There was raw power hidden in how he stepped towards Caranthir. Stopping just in front of the chain he lifted one eyebrow, his look clearly a challenge of his own. 

The Aen Elle smirked and dismissed the notion with one hand “No - we will not need it. At least not yet.”  
With the tension between him and the Witcher rising constantly, Caranthir finally made his move. Stepping into the Witcher’s personal space he lifted his hand to his neck, and pulled his head back by fisting into the long, white hair. Then he attacked the other man’s mouth. There was no softness in it, it was pure need and possessiveness.

But as predicted the Vatt’ghern wasn’t one to give up without a fight. His hands gripped the lapel of Caranthir’s tunic and pulled the elf in. He drove his tongue into the Aen Elle’s mouth and their fight for dominance was punctuated by their moans that neither of them was able to keep in.  
The elf tightened his grip in the Vatt’ghern’s hair until the other gave in, and presented his throat to the Aen Elle. Licking and sucking Caranthir delighted in the smell and taste of the other man. The nearly unearthly groan that came over the lips of the Witcher and his closed eyes told Caranthir that he was still as sensitive as ever.

“You will remain standing. No matter what I do. If you succumb to your weakness know that I will punish you.”  
The elf’s voice was low and dark, shaking slightly with arousal. This was it, this was what he wanted, what he had missed. 

Letting the Witcher go, he took a step back and watched as the other tried to regain his composure. With a sneer Caranthir saw that the Witcher was already hard - the loincloth did nothing to hide it. However, that would soon change.  
Calling a small amount of magic he held a long finger to the hollow at the other man’s neck. He could see a drop of sweat collecting there. Not even touching the skin he let the magic flow out of him. He saw the yellow eyes widen before the Witcher took in a sharp breath.  
Caranthir knew that the pain he had inflicted was similar to a sharp knife parting skin and flesh. But when he removed his finger, nothing could be seen but unblemished skin. 

Caranthir continued his exploration and walked around the man, every now and then extending a finger to lightly touch a muscle or a scar on that hard body, just to see the small contractions that shivered under the skin whenever he let the magic flow.  
But the Witcher never uttered a sound. His eyes were half-lidded and their gaze followed Caranthir around. Sweat had started to run down his body in small rivulets, and his panting breath was the only sound in the room.

But he still stood without moving. The wound on his thigh had long ago stopped bleeding, and the dried blood on his leg was now soaked with sweat. Caranthir decided to take the man one step further. This time his fingernails touched the skin and left long thin trails of blood behind. The magic now cut into the living flesh like a scalpel.

The mage positioned his finger at the top of the Witcher’s pectoral, the nail digging in and a small drop of red liquid emerging. Caranthir pulled the nail down, parting skin until he had reached the dark circle of the areola. He paused and looked into those yellow eyes which were burning with something beyond pain. The Witcher held himself completely still - only his nostrils flared when he sucked air into his lungs. But now even that stopped and he held his breath.

His pupils contracted until only thin slits remained and the challenge was clearly visible. Caranthir bared his teeth and dragged the nail down, across the raised flesh of the nipple. He saw it part and the blood welling up. This time a small groan escaped the Witcher and the mage saw that he had clenched his fists at his side. But when he looked down he also saw something else. 

The man’s cock was still half hard. Caranthir couldn’t hold himself back and grabbed the Witcher’s face in both hands before diving in for a searing kiss. His tongue pushed between the other’s lips and plundered his mouth, reveling in the response he got when the man kissed back. Stepping back, he panted. He mustn’t rush things and there was so much more to inflict on this perfect body in front of him. 

Regaining control over himself he looked at the pattern of red that painted the Witcher’s abdomen. Lazy rivulets trickling down from the cuts on his chest, mixing with sweat, gliding over those perfect muscles. He drew a long finger through the blood and licked it off, closing his eyes and sighing at the unique taste.

“You are perfect - so sensitive and yet, stoic enough to let me do this to you…”, the elf couldn’t withhold the wonder in his voice. He lifted his hand and held it over the deep laceration over the man’s chest. The flesh started knitting back together and another groan escaped the Witcher. Healing magic was just as painful as cutting into the skin in the first place. 

“I am going to heal every single wound I will inflict on you…”, Caranthir’s voice had dropped to a dark growl, and seeing the muscles ripple as a tremor went through the Witcher’s body at those words had him smile cruelly. He lifted his hand from the now perfectly healed pec and turned around, walking towards the middle of the room, where the chain hung. 

“Come here - you will need some support because you won’t be able to remain standing on your own during what I have in mind for you next.”  
Caranthir waited, not fully sure if the man was already so far gone that he would follow his order. And, just as he had suspected, the Witcher lifted his head and turned to stare at him with disgust shining from his golden eyes. 

“If you think of resisting me, rest assured that you will find yourself on the floor, writhing in the most horrific pain even you could imagine, before you even get one step closer to me. I am not some bored Aen Seidhe, who is seeking thrills by bedding a Witcher.”  
The Aen Elle paused, waiting for any response at all. As none came, he continued.  
“In the end, you will do as I say. The only question is, which way will you chose. None of them will be pleasant, but you will hang from those chains and I will taste your blood.” 

In a move that would have startled anybody else, the Witcher went from complete standstill into a leap across the room that had Caranthir instinctively take a step backwards. But instead of attacking the elf he simply pushed the Aen Elle into the wall, a growl coming from his throat.  
“You like this game, don’t you. Guess it’s time I really start playing.” And with that he ground his hips into the elf’s lower body. 

Caranthir’s breath hitched and a moan escaped him. Then the Witcher ripped his tunic aside and latched onto his throat, biting and sucking hard at the skin. The Aen Elle just stood there and let himself experience the raw force that was the Vatt’ghern.  
His eyes were closed and his breath came in bursts.  
“As I said, you will do as I say.”, and he lifted one hand to the man’s chest before unleashing his magic.

The scream echoed in the small cell for some time, even after the pain had choked the Witcher, who was silently twitching on the floor, his muscles spasming under a torrent of agony, his back arching from the ground, letting the tendons in his neck stand out like ropes, and his eyes rolled back into his head. He had bitten his tongue and red, frothy bubbles were on his lips as he desperately tried to keep breathing.

“I told you what would happen.”  
Caranthir’s voice was cold but slightly trembling with a mixture of rage and arousal. This was how he had wanted the dh’oine, fighting until the very end - until his ultimate submission.

The mage turned to the door and pounded against it. A small slit was opened and the face of a rather intimidated guard peered in. They certainly had heard the screams, the whole dungeon must have heard them.  
“Get in here, he needs to be chained up.”  
The command in the elf’s voice had the men outside scramble to open the door. Even if they had been afraid of the Witcher, they were absolutely terrified of the elf.

It took three of them to lift the spasming body of the man from the floor, and get him into the shackles. Even as he hung freely, the tremors didn’t subside and small moans came over his bloodied lips. His head hung down and Caranthir wasn’t sure, but it seemed that the Witcher wanted to say something. Gripping a fist into his hair, the elf lifted the man’s head and looked into burning amber eyes full of pain and agony.

“Plough you, Caranthir.” the Witcher managed, and his lips twisted into a bloody grin.

The Aen Elle looked into the man’s face for a few heartbeats before he started laughing. It was a laugh of true enjoyment. Gwynbleidd remembered.

He didn’t realize the terrified guards fleeing the room and bolting the door behind them, all he knew was he had the Witcher exactly where he wanted him. His hands started to softly caress the face in front of him. Letting his fingers glide over the scars and along the cheekbones, down to the lips he let himself enjoy the feeling, and something like a purr came from deep inside his chest.

“So - you remember. Then you know what will come next, don’t you?"  
His hands slid slowly down to the Witcher’s throat, lightly encircling it, without putting any pressure on it. He felt the man swallow hard. But there was no other response. Caranthir knew that he would enjoy the next hours, when he would try to get a reaction from the Witcher. 

It took him nearly one hour to finally get something more from the man than a silent groan. But when he let his magic flow into the base of the Witcher’s skull, a broken scream tore from him.

Caranthir was about to say something, when suddenly the door banged open and a furious commander entered the cell. He took one look at the bloodied, groaning man that hung from the chain and immediately ordered his guards to take him down. But before any of them was able to touch the Witcher, Caranthir had thrown them back with one move of his hand. Not being cowered by the demonstration of magic at all, the commander glared at the Aen Elle.

“You were told specifically not to harm him. At least not too much. But this…”, he pointed at the Witcher, who hung nearly unconscious from the ceiling, blood dripping from him to the floor, “this is way beyond anything I would ever allow. You are to leave immediately. The guards will escort you out. And there won’t be a refund. I’m gonna need all the money to get him back into a state where he is able to fight in the arena.”

The elf didn’t respond but was curious to find something like concern in the commanders voice. And it wasn’t just concern for his business but real concern for the Witcher. 

The mage stopped the commander as the man wanted to go to the Witcher.  
“You do not have to worry. All of this is just temporary. He will be completely healed when I return him to you in the morning. Including the injuries he sustained in his fight. I even won’t charge you for it.”  
A nasty sneer curled Caranthir’s lips. His hand was resting on the commander’s chest, keeping the man in place.  
“And trust me, you do not want to disturb me any longer. But if you insist, I will allow you to stay and watch. But maybe we should ask the Witcher, what he thinks of this all?”  
The mocking tone in the elf’s voice had the commander bristle.  
But before he could say anything else, Caranthir had walked over to the Witcher and lifted his head with his hand under his chin.  
“Gwynbleidd, do you have anything to say to our dear commander here?”  
The Aen Elle’s voice was silken and warm.

The Witcher took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted his head away from the elf’s hand. He spat out - a glob of saliva and blood hit the floor a few inches from the commander’s feet.  
“Screw the two of you…”, the man’s voice was rough and low.  
“Roche - get your bloede chaperon out of here.”, a cough shook his body before he could continue, “The ploughing mage is right. I can take him on.”  
A humorless grin showed bloodied teeth.  
„I’ve had the pleasure of his company before.“ 

The commander was clearly taken by surprise that the Witcher was still able to talk, let alone basically kick him out of his own cell. But Caranthir knew that the man - Roche - wouldn’t want any trouble, and clearly taking on the elf would mean a lot of that. So he just glared at the Aen Elle, and with one last look at the Witcher he turned on the spot and took his guards out with him.  
At the sound of the lock in the door, Caranthir saw a shiver run over the Witcher’s skin. 

“You did beautifully. I think I should reward you for your loyalty."  
But when he lifted his hand to stroke the man’s head, the Witcher just sneered and spat out. This time the red glob landed right on Caranthir’s cheek. 

“My mouth’s a bit dry. Could use some more of that lovely red wine you got. Fancy bringing me a cup?”  
The pure disdain in the Witcher’s rasping voice was enough to rile the mage’s ire. With a vicious hiss he backhanded the man. Hard. 

The Witcher’s head snapped back so fast, that his breath left him in completely. Coughing, he tried to get his bearings back, but Caranthir would have nothing of that. With a fury he only seldom allowed himself, he started to touch the Witcher with his magic. He didn’t hold back but unleashed a bonebreaking force onto him. There were no cries, the Witcher had no energy for those. There was just a body bucking in the chains, twitching muscle, and low agonizing moans before he dropped away into unconsciousness. 

It took Caranthir a while to realize that his attacks were useless because the man in front of him was gone, and no longer responding. Breathing heavily he took a few tumbling steps back until he found the chair. When he filled his cup with wine, his hands were shaking. He hadn’t let himself lose control like this for at least a century. 

Looking up to the Witcher he saw him swaying slowly on the chain. The blood stain on the floor had grown considerably, and even though he was unconscious, small tremors raced over the body, his fingers twitching lightly. Taking deep gulps from his cup, Caranthir contemplated his work. He knew that he could do things like that only with this man in front of him. Nobody else had the stamina or life force to withstand him. 

When the tremors suddenly grew stronger and started to shake the Witcher’s body uncontrollably, Caranthir realized that he had gone too far. He rose quickly and walked over, releasing the chain and lowering the spasming body to the floor. Kneeling at the man’s side he didn’t care about the blood that soaked his robes, but started chanting immediately sending healing magic into the Witcher. After a few minutes the tremors subsided and the man opened his eyes. The amber color was clouded and he seemed to look through the elf at a spot somewhere behind him. His hands were scrambling over the rough stone floor, and when he found the Aen Elle’s hand he simply clung to it. A small sigh came over his lips. 

Caranthir knew that the Witcher was gone too far. With a light pull on his hand he urged the man to sit up.  
“Kneel. I will help you.”  
The Witcher didn’t resist, but let himself be pulled up on his knees. Caranthir stood up and, taking the man’s head in both his hands, lifted it up to look into his eyes.  
His voice was soft.  
“You know what you will do.” 

This time the slit pupils focused on the mage, and Caranthir shivered at the spark of defiance he saw in them. But then the Witcher leaned forward, and his mouth found the fabric over the elf’s erection which quickly hardened at the feeling of warm breath. Caranthir’s hands grasped into strands of white hair as he looked up at the ceiling, relishing the sensation.  
With one hand he loosened the fastenings and freed his cock.  
Grabbing tightly onto the man’s hair he forced him to tilt his head back. One day Caranthir would drown himself in those eyes, those yellow suns, burning hot and scorching everyone who was too weak to handle the Witcher.

With deliberate slowness Caranthir lifted one finger and put it onto the Witcher’s lips, pressing lightly. The man’s mouth opened slowly and let the elf in. Caranthir’s breath hitched as he felt a hot, wet tongue twirl around his digit. He added a second one and pushed deeper. A quiet gagging sound was all he heard before he could feel the man swallow around them.

The Aen Elle removed his fingers and in one hard shove pushed the Witcher’s mouth onto his cock. When the man instinctively tried to move back he held him in place with both hands. Caranthir felt fingers scrape along his thighs but didn’t give in. The hot warmth and the throat muscles contracting around the head of his cock had him moan loudly.

Looking down he saw the fight in the Witcher’s eyes - his defiance was severely weakened and something else rose behind it - arousal and submission came to the fore. Only then did Caranthir pull back, and let the man take a deep shuddering breath. Saliva and pre-cum were already dripping from his lips and he was swaying on his knees. 

This completely debauched picture drove Caranthir over the edge. Grabbing the Witcher by the throat with one hand he forced him up onto his feet. He kissed him hard before throwing him onto the pallet in the corner. The Witcher was still too dazed to catch himself and slammed painfully into the wall. Caranthir didn’t care - he was over the man in a heartbeat and ripped the loincloth away. With a disgusted sneer he ripped the cockring from the man’s semi-hard cock, before turning him over onto his knees. 

When the Witcher underneath him finally came partly back to himself, and tried to fight him and buck him off, the Aen Elle threw himself over him, and pinned him to the hard mattress. He was too big and heavy for the weakened dh’oine to throw off.  
One hand in the white hair, he pulled the man’s head brutally back and shoved two fingers of his other hand in the half-open mouth.  
“There is no oil in this cell. I will use your blood and whatever you can put onto these fingers. So I suggest you lubricate them properly.” he hissed with agonizing need in his voice. He wanted to bury himself in the body below him so badly, it made his vision swim.

As soon as his fingers were coated in saliva, he retrieved them and sat up, pulling the Witcher with him up onto his knees, with his head still down on the pallet.  
“Spread yourself for me."  
The command had the man lift his hands to grab his ass and pull himself apart. Caranthir groaned at the sight.

His finger pushed into the tight ring of muscle without mercy, and after a few deep pushes he added the second one. A pained whine came from the Witcher but his hands held still.  
Scissoring him open, Caranthir stroked himself with the other hand before he pulled his fingers out. He knew he should have taken more time to prepare the man, but he would not wait any longer - he had waited too long for this. Positioning the head of his cock at the nearly dry entrance he rasped hoarsely, “You will take me - willingly."

And then he pushed - he felt his cock breach the tight entrance and slide in. It was not smooth or even arousing but the simple act of possessing someone, of taking another body and claiming it, was all the elf wanted.  
And what made it all the sweeter was the knowledge that the Witcher let him do it, let himself be possessed and although he had fought tooth and nail - in the end he submitted. And this submission was the price Caranthir had turned the world upside down for on his search for the Vatt’ghern.

A faint echo of a scream rang in the cell as Caranthir started thrusting into the man. He didn’t hold himself back, but brutally forced his hard cock into the tight hot opening. He could feel that somehow the friction lessened and then saw blood on his cock when he pulled back.  
When the Witcher tried to get up onto his hands, the mage bent over and pushed his head back down. His fingers found their way to the man’s mouth and he forced them in.  
“Take me. You are mine - your body belongs to me. And your soul belongs to me.” the mage panted, feeling himself getting closer to his release. 

He reached under the other man, and grabbed the Witcher’s hard cock that had already started to leak pre-cum. Caranthir felt it twitch whenever his thrusts hit the sensitive spot in the man.  
Feeling the Vatt’ghern’s tongue twirl around his fingers made him change his rhythm to something slower, deeper that was immediately rewarded by a low, long moan from the Witcher. The man had his hands buried in the thin mattress, the broken fingers standing at odd angles. 

When the mage started to stroke him with long pulls, the man emitted a high whine and tried to buck into the hand, to gain more friction. But Caranthir didn’t change the pressure or the rhythm. Continuing his slow pace he felt desperation rise in the Witcher. With a cruel smile he pushed his fingers deeper into the man’s throat until he felt him gagging. Only then did he increase the speed of his thrusts. 

His fingers obstructed the Witcher’s airways, and the bucking became more intense. With his head bent back as far as possible in a futile attempt to evade the choking fingers, the man’s body began to spasm. Caranthir groaned when he felt the muscles around his thrusting cock contract and his moves became erratic. Gripping the Witcher’s nearly purple cock in a painfully hard grip he pulled once more along the length when he felt the man coming onto his fingers. 

Despite the lack of air in his lungs, the Witcher screamed and his muscles clenched down on Caranthir brutally. That was all it needed for the Aen Elle - his face buried into the Witcher’s shoulder he shouted his own release into the flesh below him.  
The body under the elf twitched forcefully and Caranthir felt the spurts of hot seed on his fingers before they splattered onto the pallet.  
He dropped onto the Witcher, no longer having the strength to hold himself up. Pulling his fingers out of the other man’s mouth, he listened to the stuttering breaths. His blood rushed in his ears and he could feel his whole body shudder with the aftershock.

Slowly kissing along the scarred skin on the Witcher’s shoulder he stroked his fingers lovingly over the flesh. The Witcher had taken him on again, and just as in the past, he had given all of himself to Caranthir. Stroking his hand down a hard, sweaty flank the Aen Elle smiled.

When he finally lifted himself up, he saw the yellow eyes following him, pupils dilated and burning with a deadly kind of desire. 

“Oh - right now you would very much like to kill me, don’t you?”  
Caranthir smirked as he took the washcloth from one bucket and cleaned himself. He then wandered over to the Witcher and, lifting the cloth asked “May I?”  
The Witcher let himself be cleaned up and then tried to stand before the Aen Elle put a hand under his arm and helped him over to the chair.  
“I could ask you if you’d rather like a cup of wine or being healed. But by now I think I know you well enough”, with that Caranthir handed the Witcher the full cup.  
The only answer he got was a grunt before the Witcher downed the cup in one go. 

“Get out.” 

The Witcher’s voice was rough and it clearly pained him to utter those two words.  
Caranthir lifted his eyebrows.  
“Do you treat all your partners like that? No wonder not even the sorceresses want anything to do with you any more.” 

“Do your healing jinx and then get out.”  
His tone was quiet but deadly serious “Or by the gods, I will rip you apart. It will take Roche a week to clean up after I’ve finished with you.”

This time the Witcher succeeded in standing up. And although he was still unsure on his legs he managed to make the few steps towards Caranthir, until he stood directly in front of the elven mage.

He didn’t say anything, but held up the hand with the broken fingers in front of Caranthir’s face. 

Carefully the Aen Elle took the hand in his and let his magic flow into it. A sharp intake of breath was the only sign that the Witcher had felt the pain. Slowly Caranthir worked his way across the Vatt’ghern’s body.  
The man remained standing completely still, like a statue and only quiet hisses would indicate that he was feeling anything.

“I cannot do very much regarding the blood loss. You will have to make sure that you eat enough then it should get better by itself. And maybe the commander has some healing potions laying around?” 

“Suddenly you are going all mother hen over me? Found your soft side tonight, Caranthir?”  
But the contempt in those words lost its sting at the emptiness in the man’s voice. 

Caranthir tilted his head to the side.  
“I have found something that I thought I had lost. But you do not have to worry - I will not seek you out again. But I believe we will meet again - at another point in time. Maybe to see a swallow take flight.”  
He smiled, and from the shocked look in the Witcher’s eyes he knew that the man knew that it had been a sincere smile. 

He bowed his head before turning around and pounding at the door. The guards immediately opened it after they had realized that it was indeed the elf who demanded to be let out. 

Before he stepped into the dark corridor, Caranthir turned back one more time to look at the Witcher. The man stood in the middle of the room, his hands clenched into fists and a rather strange expression in his eyes. The Aen Elle couldn’t place it and turned to leave, hearing the door being shut behind him. 

He had already taken several steps when he suddenly stopped - he knew what the look in those shining amber eyes had been - longing.

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I get the slight suspicion that there could be something more between those two. Some kind of sappy romance maybe? But no - they will try to kill each other in the end and we all know how this will turn out.


End file.
